Hey, Are You Lonely?
by mellifluous cloud
Summary: Sequel to XOXO And Don't Tell a Soul, so read that first. Four years have passed and Molly is more lonely than ever. UNFINISHED
1. Gone

Title: Hey, Are You Lonely?

Author: mellifluous cloud

Disclaimer: I don't own _So Weird_. This is the much-delayed sequel to my story XOXO and Don't Tell a Soul. Please read it if you haven't already. Otherwise, enjoy!

Chapter One

I always thought he'd come back. I guess I just assumed that that's how things _worked_. And that we were meant to be, so he had to come back… he just had to. Because he completed me, and because we were destined to be together, and because… because, goddamnit, I _deserved_ it. I deserved him, and I deserved to love and be loved. I deserved to be happy.

And yet, here I was. God, am I pathetic. I've become a shell of my former being, worn out and chiseled down to the core. There is nothing left. Every day I live for the memories, the daydreams, the reminders of the fantasy world in which I lived for a brief, fleeting moment of time. Every night I go to sleep so that for a few hours, I can disappear, escape, and time can pass with a blink of an eye. And I can say: _I did it. I made it through another day._ How many are left?

I don't want to be this way. I wish he knew how hard I tried to get over him, and oh, the numerous attempts I made to move on, and to forget Carey Bell. Carey Bell, who broke my heart. Who showered me with love and affection, who consoled me in a time when it seemed the world was out to get me, who showed me that I too could be vibrant and exciting, because he gave me reason… only to take it all away, to disappear with barely any notice, to shatter my dreams and remind me that I could never have what I wanted. I was so foolish.

And now four years have passed. Jack, Fi, and Annie are gone. Clu is gone. Carey has been gone. Irene has not said more than three words to me in the past few years—she might as well be gone. Ned is still around, but for some reason, I rarely see him. It's just me, in this huge house which has never felt like a home, in boring old Hope Springs, Colorado.

And I'm gone, too. I am. This isn't life. Waking up every morning, reading the paper, watching TV, wishing the phone would ring, getting the mail, writing lyrics to songs that I sing to myself in a voice barely above a whisper… this isn't life. I'm a complete mess. My meals generally consist of eating ice cream with a spoon straight from the tub while passively watching whatever crap was on TV, stains covering the coffee table. The only reason I don't weigh 300 pounds is due to the fact that I have been blessed with an extremely fast metabolism… oh, and I smoke about a pack a day. The house reeks. I really don't care.

I tried starting up my music career again—a few times, actually, but all my attempts failed miserably. It seems no one is interested in signing and promoting a washed-up, middle-aged, barely-known singer. And to think, I used to consider myself a rock star. And to think… I took so much for granted. I threw everything away, just so I could have a few private moments of happiness with Carey Bell… for a few weeks. And then he left.

At the time, I was miserable and heartbroken. I pined for him for months… a year, maybe two. I still loved him.

But now, all I feel is resent. I resent him for ruining my life. For giving me so much and then taking it all away. I wish "we" never happened. He destroyed me. Maybe it's unfair to blame him, but I can't help it now. After four years of feeling nothing but misery, I just want my life back. I just want to be Molly Phillips again. I want to be happy.

And I always thought he'd come back. I'm not sure how I'd react if he did.


	2. Where'd You Go?

Disclaimer: The lyrics are from Remy Zero's song "Fair."

Chapter Two

_Hey, are you lonely?_

_Has summer gone so slowly?_

_We found the ground_

_But that damage was done._

_It's cold as you fade_

_Into the sun._

The phone was ringing, but I didn't pick up. I rarely do. It's too disappointing. I'd rather let the machine deal with it.

"Hi, I can't come to the phone right now. Leave a message and I'll call you back." But more likely, I wouldn't.

"Mom… it's Jack. I mean… well, obviously. Could you call me back when you get this? I just… wanted to talk to you. And… yeah. I guess that's everything. Alright. Bye." And a click.

I sighed. I hadn't talked to either of my children in so long. I was hiding from the world… ashamed of myself. I didn't want anyone to see what I had become. I was so embarrassed.

Reluctantly, I picked up the phone and dialed Jack's number. This was the first human contact I had had in days.

"Mom?" he said hesitantly.

"Hi sweetie," I replied, making my voice with a façade of normalcy, or so I hoped. "Sorry I didn't pick up. I was in the bathroom."

"You were ignoring my call."

"I didn't know it was you. I didn't get up to look at the Caller ID. I was ignoring the phone."

He sighed. "Mom, what are you doing?"

"What am I doing? Well, at the moment, talking to you. When we get off the phone I'll probably fix myself some lunch, perhaps go for a walk—"

"No. You know what I mean." I didn't say anything. "What are you doing, Mom?" Jack asked again.

"I'm…" I'm incapable of thinking of a believable lie so I can answer this question. "Well, I was thinking of maybe writing some radio jingles again. You know, that's what I do best. No one wants to hear my music, Jack. No one wants to hear a middle-aged woman singing grade-B rock-and-roll." I laughed half-heartedly. "So in the end I'll sell my soul, because I know that's what they want to buy."

"Mom, _jingles_ aren't what you do best. You're a musician."

"That doesn't help me now. I'm a musician, alright, but no one is interested in listening to me. So that doesn't really get me anywhere, does it?"

"Have you talked to Irene?"

I felt a chill come over my body. "No," I snapped. "And I don't intend to."

"It's been four years, Mom. You've both got to let it go… I mean, things will be different now. Just talk to her. She'll listen—"

"No!" I interrupted loudly. "I mean…" I took a deep breath. "I just can't. You don't know the whole story, Jack…"

"So tell me."

Okay. Well, you see, honey, remember your friend, Carey, the one who suddenly left Hope Springs and never returned? He left because Irene forced him to leave. And she forced him to leave because she would make his life a living hell after she found out that he was dating me. Which he was. And we were in love. _This_ is why I can't talk to Irene. Get it now?

"I can't," I said finally. "I'm sorry."

He sighed. "Mom, this has to stop. Look what you're doing to yourself. I just want you to be happy again, and the only way you'll truly be happy is if you do what you love."

"Jack…" I was close to tears. "I need a lot more than that to be happy. It's not that simple."

"It _can _be—"

"No. It's never been simple. Not for me, not for your sister, not for—" I stopped myself. "I have to go. I'm sorry."

"Just think about what I said."

"I already did. Goodbye." I placed the phone on the receiver and stared at it for a moment. Then I slid to the ground, arms wrapped tightly around my legs, head against my knees, and broke down completely.

_Where'd you go?_

_…To me?_


	3. Spiritual Cleansing

Chapter Three

The rain was pounding against the windows and ceiling, so heavily that you could barely hear anything else. It woke me up from my sleep at night, so I'd turn sideways, facing the window, and watch the drops as they violently crashed against the glass. I'd wish that somehow the rain could wash me pure… or wash away my memories.

And then I saw him. Hair sticking to his forehead, wide eyes, his face covered in droplets of water. He just stared at me.

"Carey?" I whispered, in disbelief. I got out of bed, walked slowly to the window, and opened it… everything felt so reminiscent to that last night we were together, when he came to my window and told me that he had to leave. He climbed inside, and we stared at each other, speechless.

"You're completely drenched," I said. "Let me get a towel so you can dry—" But my words were interrupted, because he grabbed my face and kissed me. I wrapped my arms around his body, and soon we were locked in a fit of passion… I peeled off his wet clothes, and he peeled off my dry ones, all the while not losing contact with each other. We fell to my bed… and we made love.

Or sometimes I woke up before we did. Sometimes I didn't offer to get him a towel. Sometimes I kissed him first. But the dream was pretty much the same every time I had it… and I had been having it at least once a week, every week, for the past four years.

Needless to say, every day when it rained very hard, I couldn't help thinking that Carey would appear. It felt like _more _than a dream… like a vision. Or maybe I just wished it were.

Today was one of those days.

I loved it when it rained so heavy that it pounded against the roof. It was almost like a spiritual cleansing. Or the tears of nature: a reminder that I wasn't the only one who was miserable.

What could Irene have said to him?

It wasn't the first time I thought about this. Rather—far from that. How badly could she have possibly threatened Carey that forced him to _leave_? It just didn't make sense. She could have threatened to tell everyone—but they were all bound to find out eventually. Honestly, that was the least of my worries. He was too old to be grounded severely. And she couldn't have threatened him financially because obviously he had enough money to live alone. What was it? Would I ever know?

Carey wrote me that letter. He said he couldn't stay because Irene forbade him to see me and he couldn't bear to be so near what he could never have. But something didn't sit right with the situation. That couldn't be the whole story… there had to have been something more.

I had thought about the numerous ways I could find out, too. I could ask Irene. Flat-out. At this point, I really didn't care how much she hated me. The problem was that I hated her too much to talk to her… to even ask her this question. And I doubt she'd tell me the truth, anyway.

Or I could find Carey. And of course I had tried that, too. I had tried every day for two years to track him down. It was useless. He was unlisted—everywhere. Phone books, online, everywhere. I found out through dumb luck, flipping through the newspaper one day about three years ago, that he had joined a local band… but their hometown wasn't listed, and no mention of the band was ever made again. The article said that the band was playing a show in Hope Springs… but, as luck should have it, "Guitarist Carey Bell is unable to play due to a mild illness, and will be replaced with fellow guitarist Matt Anderson for the band's next few appearances." I knew the truth. He was avoiding me.

Where was he now? He could be across the country. He could be married and have children. Maybe he went to college. I wondered if he had changed his name. For all I knew… he could be dead.

He might as well have been.


	4. Apology

Chapter Four

I guess it would be an understatement to say that I'm stubborn. I've become more stubborn over the years, I suppose. And it's not about to change anytime soon.

I had milled over Jack's words from when he called me the other day and decided it was about time I start doing something with my life. The royalties weren't going to last forever, and those were precisely what I had been living on for the past few years. Actually, I suppose that technically I could live off the royalties, but… it was time to face reality. My life was going nowhere. Not to say I was suicidal, or anything. The thought passed through my mind on occasion… that I could "join Rick" in the "spirit world"… something ridiculous like that. But I couldn't. I don't believe in that stuff. I _can't _believe in it. Look what it did to him. Look what it did to me.

It wasn't hard to get back into the business of writing commercial jingles—if that could be called a business. I was only working part-time. It was just a hobby for now… something to busy myself with, so I wouldn't think about other things. I think you know what the other things are.

Jack and Fi both called, pleading with me not to write jingles again. That I was so "above" that. I, of course, was too stubborn to admit that they were right. I hated jingles. I felt like I was going backwards. I used to be a _rock star_—or, at least, in my hazy view of the world, I was. I sure felt like a rock star.

So imagine my shock when someone else called, also pleading with me.

"Hello?" It was one of those rare occasions when I answered the phone, because I was expecting a call from a local grocery store to find out whether or not they approved of my latest tune. The Caller ID said "Restricted," and I didn't think anything of it.

"Molly?"

I almost didn't recognize the voice at first. Actually, that's a lie. I recognized the voice immediately—I just couldn't believe my ears. "Who's this?" I asked hesitantly, fearing the answer.

"Come on, Molly. Let's not play this game anymore. You know damn well who this is."

"Irene."

"It's been a while, huh?"

I wanted to hang up. My hands were shaking. Why was _she _calling? And yet, hearing her voice on the other end of the line, all I could think was one thing: this must have something to do with Carey. Something happened. Is she ready to forgive me? Or did something bad happen? Am I about to get something worse than the silent treatment? I clung to the receiver, anxiously anticipating whatever words were about to come from her mouth. "It's been a while," I repeated.

"I just heard your latest jingle on the radio, Moll. I've been hearing it all week. Twenty times a day, if not more. I couldn't get you off my mind."

I wasn't sure how to respond. Without thinking, the words just spilled out. "I miss you, Irene…"

"God, I miss you too. Why didn't you call?"

"I don't know. What was I supposed to do? I mean, the days turned into weeks… the weeks turned into months… and years. What could I do? I felt silly," I admitted. "I wanted to, so bad…"

"To apologize?"

I blushed hard, though Irene couldn't see it through the phone. _Apologize?_ I thought. _Never_. I was growing angrier now—how dare she ask me to apologize! I may regret what happened to Carey and me for the sole reason that it turned out so horribly, but I don't regret what I said to Irene when I quit, and what I didn't say to her when she sent Carey away. She ought to consider herself lucky that I was even talking to her now, and I wanted to tell her so, but held my tongue.

"Oh God, I'm sorry," Irene said quickly, interrupting my thoughts and the long pause in our conversation. "I didn't mean to say that—it just—"

"Don't worry about it," I interrupted. "But to answer your question, I never wanted to apologize. I don't regret it. I'm not sorry. I'm only sorry that you couldn't respect my decision."

"Molly, I completely understand why you quit. I was trying to take your music in a completely opposite direction, and you didn't want that. But then to just _cut me off _like you did—"

"What? How did you expect me to react, after what happened next?" My heart was pounding again. I hoped we wouldn't get into specifics. I really didn't want to talk about this, not with her, not right now. I didn't need additional stress.

"Okay, Molly, you got me. I didn't call you to argue. I guess I'm the one who should be sorry. And I am. I'm sorry. I just never expected you'd hold a grudge against me for so long. I didn't know how much I hurt you." There was another pause. "Look, this is crazy. We live right down the street from each other. Why don't you just come over? Have dinner with us. Ned is making his famous meatloaf…"

"I don't know, Irene." It didn't feel right. How had we avoided each other for so long? I saw her in town all the time, but always looked the other way, pretending not to see her. She did the same.

"All right. What about tomorrow, then? I want to see you. I want to just get everything out in the open." I cringed at the thought.

"Tomorrow… sure," I agreed reluctantly.

"Great," she said. "Tomorrow it is. Stop by sometime around two, if you can. Or whenever. I'll be around."

"Okay."

And just like that, the stubbornness was beginning to melt away.


	5. The Storm

Disclaimer: The song "Fair" belongs to Remy Zero.

Chapter Five

_But you're alive!_

_Well, it's only_

_Fallen frames, they told me_

_You stand out, it's so loud_

_And so what if it is?_

We talked for hours. We talked about everything; we covered every aspect of our lives over the past four years. She had managed Annie, even got her signed to a record deal and embarked on a nationwide tour, only to be fired three months before the tour ended. "She said I wasn't taking her music in the direction that she wanted to go," she explained simply. Since then, she had recruited a number of different local acts, but no one stood out, except for one—a 22-year-old singer-songwriter-guitarist named Charlotte. "Most of her songs are acoustic, angsty love songs, but she's got a terrific voice and the right amount of determination. We've been playing a lot of local shows around town, almost every night, and we're just finally extending our radar. She's got a show in Denver this Friday, and if it goes well, Los Angeles next week." Irene smiled. "Hopefully I won't let this one get away."

I told her about my life, as well. The struggle to get signed followed by the realization that I was washed-up and my career was over. The ice cream, the cigarettes ("you really should quit, Molly, it's a nasty habit and it'll ruin your voice"), the answering machine, the mail, the television, the whispered lyrics. I didn't sugar-coat anything, though maybe I should have. I didn't leave anything out.

Except for one small detail.

We both avoided the topic with steadfast resolve, as if it would kill us to speak his name. His presence was heavy in the air, all around us, but we pushed forward, allowing our words to slip through the cracks from where his name, his essence, could not escape. It was like that moment before the storm, when the clouds are so dark and heavy in the air—you can almost see the raindrops brimming at the edges, ready to spill over—and you know that it's going to downpour any second. My head was almost pounding; I was concentrating so hard to make sure that his name wouldn't come up. Anything but that. The last thing I wanted was to discuss this with Irene, of all people. Especially since right now, all I wanted was to be her friend again. I wanted to go back to the way things used to be, and for the first time in four years, I was making progress. I wasn't about to let Carey destroy that for me all over again, just by existing.

But I knew it wasn't going to last forever. His name was on the tips of our tongues; I could feel it, taste it, and it was only a matter of time before the conversation turned to the topic with which we were both so inwardly preoccupied. The only question now was, who would be the one to bring it up? Who wouldn't be able to bear the pressure any longer? Which one of us would dare to speak his name, and cause the heavy cloud hovering above us to begin its torrential storm?

Irene said it first. "Carey's doing really well in New York." Just like that. Just like that, she spoke his name, and it was done. The rain began its descent. Anything could happen now.

_It's cold as you face into the wind_

_Where'd it go to?_

I was expecting something more, as if she had yet to finish her thought. _Here it comes_. Here comes what? I didn't know. The lecture, the screaming, the crying, the cat-fight… who the hell knew what was to come. I had barely even absorbed the meaning of her words—I was still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that she did it, _she spoke his name_. And who was I kidding, almost believing that this wouldn't come up?

"New York?" I repeated reflexively; it was the only response I could manage. "What's he doing in New York?"

She raised an eyebrow. "You don't know?"

"I haven't heard from him… since…" I didn't want to say it. "Since he left."

"Really? That's surprising." I didn't say anything. "I guess I just assumed he would have kept in contact with you."

_I guess your plan worked out even better than you expected_. Part of me wanted to slap her. _How dare you act like this isn't what you wanted._ I eyed her steadily, waiting.

"He's a subway musician. Can you believe that one?" She shook her head. "You think this would have taught him to go back to college, but no, of course not. He thinks he's going to get discovered. He plays at Penn Station. They actually _pay _him—the station pays him! Not much, but he gets paid, if you can believe it. And then, of course, he gets money from all those travelers, tourists mostly, because they're suckers for that sort of thing."

"He just plays his guitar?" I was barely able to form the words. I had known practically nothing about Carey for four years, and in the past thirty seconds I had learned his location, his job, and his state of mind… which was essentially all I needed to know.

"Oh, well, it's not just him. There's a keyboardist too, and a drummer, and a girl that sings with them. They just do covers and stuff like that, right around the waiting areas for the Long Island Rail Road and Amtrak and New Jersey Transit. Basically, wherever there's bound to be huge crowds of people all waiting to get on a train. Carey absolutely loves it. He loves New York. 'I don't know what you're still doing up there in those mountains,' he told me." She laughed.

I wanted to know more. "He lives in the city, then?" I asked.

"God, no. He could never afford it. He's just scraping by as it is. He and the other two guys in the band pooled their money together and they're living in a tiny apartment in Jersey City. In _New Jersey_. Can you believe it? They just make the commute over every day. It's only twenty minutes by train." She sighed. "I guess I should be happy that he's happy, but I don't know… this is not the kind of future I wanted for my son. I just want him to get a real job, find a nice girl, get married, settle down in some quiet little town… why couldn't he be _normal_? At least Clu's busy getting his master's, so there's hope for him… but Carey… I don't know how he expects to get anywhere in life with just a high school diploma."

Something else was bothering me now. I was amazed that she still hadn't brought up the subject of our relationship—and furthermore, it didn't appear that she was going to. It was as though she knew just how delicate the topic was and she didn't want to upset me. This was her way of telling me that she had moved on. Maybe time can heal everything.

I was also astounded that Carey kept in touch with her. I guess I just assumed… well…. I'm not sure what, exactly. I thought that perhaps he would be too angry to keep contact, after she had driven him away, but I guess maybe he had moved on, too. Now it was my turn.

"You know what, Irene, I'm really glad we talked," I said, just before announcing that it was time for me to head home. "Probably more than you can comprehend." It was the truth. I hadn't felt this happy in a long time. The sun was burning orange in the sky as I walked back to my house, only a few minutes left until it would melt into the horizon. And now there was a new feeling in the air: hope.

_Tonight the sun shall see its light…_


	6. Happy

Disclaimer: The lyrics are from "Love Is Broken," in the episode _Twin_.

Chapter Six

It was as though the entire universe had shifted. I sat on my front porch and watched the sunset—I watched the pink, red, orange, yellow, and purple swirl into one another and then fade away into the dark night. I had never felt so at peace with the world as I did at that moment. It was as if the entire universe was putting on a special show just for me to enjoy. I woke up early the following morning and watched the spectacle in reverse as the sun rose and greeted me with what I hoped would be another beautiful day.

All this because Irene and I were friends again. I hated feeling such resent and hatred for her over the past four years—and now it was gone. A giant weight had been lifted.

For the next week, I ate dinner at the Bells' house every night. I accompanied Irene and Ned to Denver to see Charlotte's show, and celebrated with them afterwards when they discovered that they had the green light for Los Angeles. I drove them to the airport the following week and hugged them before they boarded the plane.

I began calling Fi and Jack daily. They came over one afternoon and we spent the entire day enjoying each other's company. Fi was living in an apartment with some friends in Boulder, where she went to school, and working at a day-care center five days a week. Jack was living in Denver and working as a photographer for the _Denver Post_. We went out for dinner, came home and watched old videos from the tour. I thought it would pain me to see the old footage, but it just made me happier. I thought seeing his face on the screen would send me hurling into another manic-depressive relapse, but it didn't. When he smiled, I smiled back.

_Walking down the sidewalk_

_In New York City snow…_

It was my performance from Greg Kincaid's talk show. "That was some night," Jack said softly. Fi's eyes remained transfixed in the screen. She didn't say anything. And suddenly now all I could think about was New York City. It had been nearly two weeks since Irene and I had our first real conversation. _"Carey's doing really well in New York," _she had said. I tried to picture him in my mind, that serious-musician look on his face as he strummed his guitar, rapidly allowing himself to become completely immersed in the music until the song was over, and then he'd show the audience—a small group of passersby—a small but unshy smile. I imagined the crowds of people flooding through the station, carrying their suitcases, all coming from or going to different places. I imagined him on the train ride home with his arm wrapped around his guitar case, which was leaning against the empty seat beside him, and a satisfactory smile on his face. I felt so close to him now—I wanted to reach out—I wanted to be there—

"Mom!" I was jolted back to reality.

"What, what?" I asked quickly, looking back and forth from Jack to Fi, who were both staring at me. Fi's hand was on my shoulder.

"We've been trying to get your attention for the last ten seconds or so," Jack said.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I was just…"

"Spacing out?" Fi suggested helpfully.

"…getting lost in some old memories," I finished.

"Well, we were just going to say that it's getting late and it's about time for us to head back," Jack told me.

"But we really want to do this again," Fi added.

"So do I," I said. I walked them to the door and gave them each a hug and kiss goodbye.

"It's good to see you, Mom," Jack whispered in my ear as I hugged him. "You seem happy. I'm so glad."

"I am happy," I whispered back. I stood in the doorway and watched as they drove off, until I could no longer make out their cars' taillights. Inside again, I sat back down on the sofa. Another concert was playing, and the camera focused on Carey for a brief moment. It was all coming together for me now. _I wanted to be there._

Without hesitating for a moment to consider the consequences of the action I was about to take, I walked over to my computer desk and sat down. The computer was a gift from Fi two Christmases ago. She said it was time for me to join everyone else in the 21st century—but still I rarely used it. I knew how to turn it on and how to access the internet, but not much else. Thankfully, that was all I needed to know right now.

I began searching flights from Denver to New York. July 31st to August 4th. It was Thursday now, and the 31st was this Sunday. A five-day trip—that wouldn't be too bad. I could stay with Rachel. I'd see Carey and… we'd finally have closure, once and for all. That's all I wanted: closure. We could end what we started four years ago, and maybe even go back to the way things were before that, when he was nothing more than my guitarist and my children's best friend… and my friend, too. I had Irene, Ned, Jack, and Fi back in my life—all I needed now was him.

My heart sank when I saw the ticket prices and flight times. It would cost $326.90 if I left on Sunday at 11:55 p.m., and I'd arrive in Newark at 5:38 a.m. Monday morning. A late-night flight didn't appeal to me at all, especially with the time difference, and I'd be losing valuable hours of sleep. The return flight was to leave Newark at 7:25 a.m. Thursday morning and arrive in Denver at 9:41 a.m. That didn't sound like much of a trip: only three full days. If I wanted more reasonable times, it could cost anywhere between $465.90 and $871.90, and then I'd have to spend even more money on taxis and buses and trains… I just didn't have that kind of money to spend. Feeling discouraged, I sank into my chair and clicked out of the screen. So much for that.

But then, suddenly, a new idea began forming in my mind. _"He plays at Penn Station… right around the waiting areas for the Long Island Rail Road and Amtrak and New Jersey Transit," _Irene had said. _How badly do I want this? _I wondered. I could be making a huge mistake. But so what if I did? I had battled back from every previous mistake I had ever made. If this turned out badly, I was pretty sure I could overcome it as well.

"Amtrak," I whispered aloud. Of course. It would no doubt be cheaper than flying. No hassles of baggage claim and no chance of overbooking. I wouldn't have to pay for any cabs or trains or buses, because I could go directly to Penn Station. Feeling something—maybe nervousness?—I went to Amtrak's website and began searching for schedules and prices.

I could leave Denver on Friday at 7:25 p.m. and arrive in Chicago on Saturday at 3:20 p.m. to transfer trains. I'd arrive in New York on Sunday the 31st at 3:25 p.m. Smack in the middle of the afternoon. That would give me plenty of time to get settled in at Rachel's—perhaps even see Carey that same day. The return trip meant I would leave New York on Thursday, August 4th at 3:50 p.m., transfer in Chicago, and return to Denver on Saturday at 7:30 a.m. So the trip would be slightly longer than I hoped, and the traveling was pretty horrendous. But the times were perfect. Sunday to Thursday, just like I wanted—arriving and leaving in the middle of the afternoon. I was used to sleeping on buses, so sleeping on the train would be a snap.

The whole trip cost $428. That was a bit pricier than I expected, but nonetheless cheaper than flying. I had the money. I had the time. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine taking my first step off the train and onto the Penn Station platform. I imagined walking through the station, assuming the New York attitude, rolling my suitcase alongside the hundred and thousands of travelers from around the country. I would keep walking, and soon enough, I'd hear music, a familiar plucking of guitar strings, and there he would be…

I opened my eyes. Now or never. I entered my credit card information and ordered the tickets, not once pausing or slowing down, because I couldn't allow myself to start second-guessing. I didn't want to change my mind.

"Thank you for your order!" Those were the bold-faced words on the screen. "You can pick up your tickets at any one of the station's ticket windows. Have a nice trip!"

I had really done it. Friday, July 29th, at 7:25 p.m., I would be on my way to New York City.

Friday was tomorrow.

I shut down the computer and went upstairs to get a good night's sleep before my big day. I had phone calls to make, suitcases to pack, trains to catch, and hearts to heal.


	7. No Going Back

Disclaimer: The first set of lyrics is from the song "Sentimental Lady" by Fleetwood Mac. The second set is, again, from Remy Zero's "Fair."

Author's Note: Trivher and I have re-designed our Molly/Carey website and moved it to a new location. Please check it out and let us know what you think! Thanks.

Chapter Seven

Most of the passengers on the train seemed to pass the time by sleeping the day away. I sat up in my seat, alert, watching as various landscapes whirled by in my window. In a weird way, it reminded me of the bus—sitting near the window and watching all the different towns fly by. Who would've thought I'd ever miss that bus? I got so sick of it—I had just wanted to be on solid ground again—and now, on this fast-moving train, I wished I were back on that bus. The glory days were gone. If only I could have that back. The nonstop touring, the cabin fever, Fiona's endless and dangerous adventures, Irene's habit of being way too controlling, mid-afternoon jam sessions with Carey… that's all I wanted. I wish I had appreciated it more when I had it.

But it doesn't do any good to sit around wishing.

On Sunday morning, I couldn't stop my mind from racing. I didn't expect to be so jittery—but I was actually _nervous_. Today was the day. Four years, an era, would come to an end today. This afternoon, I would have closure. I would see Carey.

The next few hours went by painfully slowly. I just stared out the window and watched as the scenery made its final few changes. Soon, we were in New York. Orange County. Westchester. The Bronx. Harlem. The Upper West Side. We were almost there. Midtown, for a second—and then, everything went black. _We're underground_, I realized. Which meant…

"Penn Station," the robotic voice announced over the intercom.

_I'm here._

The voice of the captain immediately followed, as he rambled on about making sure to gather all our belongings and be courteous of the other passengers as we exited the train. "Enjoy your stay in New York."

It was too late to turn back.

As I took my first step onto that platform, I immediately became overwhelmed with the sights and sounds of Penn Station. Everywhere I looked were people, young, old, families, couples, pulling and carrying their luggage, some talking loudly, some silent, some looking around in awe much as I was. It was crowded, noisy, abnormally warm, stuffy, and undeniably New York. I breathed it in, trying to capture its essence in my memory somehow, and then began following the crowd to the exit—or the entrance, depending on how you look at it. For me, it was both.

And then I heard it.

_You are here and warm_

_But I could look away and you'd be gone_

_'Cause we live in a time_

_When meaning falls in splinters from our lives_

_And that's why I've traveled far_

_'Cause I come so together where you are_

It was so faint—I could just barely make it out. I wasn't even sure it was him, at first. I guess it was more instinct than anything.

_And all of the things that I said that I wanted_

_Come rushing by in my head when I'm with you_

_Fourteen joys and a will to be merry_

_And all of the things that we say are very_

_Sentimental gentle wind_

_Blowing through my life again_

_Sentimental lady, gentle one_

I walked in the direction of the music. A woman was singing. She had a pleasant voice, I had to admit it. And then—something—clicked. I heard the guitar strings, I guess. And don't ask me how, but I knew. I could just tell. And then I saw him.

_Now you are here today_

_But easily you might just go away_

_'Cause we live in a time_

_When paintings have no color, words don't rhyme_

_And that's why I've traveled far_

_'Cause I come so together where you are_

My breath caught in my throat, and I stood, frozen. He didn't see me. His head was down, as he focused so intently on his playing. I always loved that about him. He was just like me, that way. So driven. So completely absorbed by the music.

_And all of the things that I said that I wanted_

_Come rushing by in my head when I'm with you_

_Fourteen joys and a will to be merry_

_And all of the things that we say are very_

_Sentimental gentle wind_

_Blowing through my life again_

_Sentimental lady, gentle one_

There was a fairly large crowd of people around the band, some stopping briefly to listen and then continuing their journey, some swaying in time with the song, others just pushing to get through the crowd. I was somehow trapped in the midst of it all.

_You are here and warm_

_But I could look away and you'd be gone_

_'Cause we live in a time_

_When meaning falls in splinters from our lives_

_And that's why I've traveled far_

_'Cause I come so together where you are_

I continued to watch him. He looked different, somewhat—more rugged on the edges. A little older and a little wiser. But his eyes were shining, and a tiny smile played on his lips—he was happy. I was glad.

_Yes and all of the things that I said that I wanted_

_Come rushing by in my head when I'm with you_

_Fourteen joys and a will to be merry_

_And all of the things that we say are very_

_Sentimental gentle wind_

_Blowing through my life again_

_Sentimental lady, gentle one_

The song was nearly over, and the crowd began to murmur their approval. I wondered how long this would last—how long I'd be standing here. I kind of hoped maybe they'd launch into another song, and another, and I could just stay here, hidden, where he wouldn't see me… until I was ready. Because suddenly I wasn't sure if I _was._But time was running out, and now there was no going back.

_Sentimental gentle wind_

_Blowing through my life again…_

And the song faded away. The music stopped, and there was a splattering of applause—nothing too grand, but what could be expected in a subway station? The crowd began to disperse, and I didn't budge. I remained where I was, perfectly still, watching him. He still didn't see me. One of the guys in the band had approached him and was talking about something; Carey was clearly disinterested. He shifted his gaze, presumably to look at the clock, or a sign, or simply to stare into space—and his sight landed on me instead.

I didn't move.

His eyes grew wider, and he just stared me down. The other guy was still talking, I know this because his lips were moving, but somehow it seemed now like the entire station had fallen silent, and all the noise and commotion that had overwhelmed me so intensely just minutes earlier had spontaneously vanished. I wondered if Carey felt the same sensation. I was waiting for something—I guess I expected him to make the first move. He always had. But I guess this time would be different.

Driven by a sudden mobilizing force, I took a few steps forward, until we were just a couple feet apart. "Hi Carey." He moved his mouth, trying to formulate a response, but still didn't say anything. This wasn't really how I envisioned our encounter, and I began to feel foolish. I held my breath. "Aren't you going to say—anything?"

"You're here," he said finally. It was an inadequate statement; we both knew it. "I just—god, I don't know what to say—I had so many things that I would tell you, all planned out in my head—and now that you're here, I forgot everything." Suddenly he turned to his band mates. "I have to go." They looked at him confusedly, then at me, but no one protested. Carey quickly flung the strap of his guitar up over his head and placed it gingerly back inside its case. Then, in one fluid movement, he grasped the handle of his guitar case with one hand, and my hand with the other.

I tried to deny it later, but the moment his fingers brushed mine, I knew it was all over. We walked at a brisk pace through the main concourse of Penn Station and then out onto the street, and I wanted to hold back, but I could feel myself falling, falling, falling, and I remembered again that there was no going back.

_So what if you catch me, _

_Where would we land? _

_In somebody's life _

_Forsaking his hands _

_Sing to me hope as she's _

_Thrown on the sand_

_All of our work _

_Is rated again._

_Where to go?_


	8. Closure

Disclaimer: The lyrics are from the song "More Like a River," from _So Weird_, of course.

Chapter Eight

We stood on the corner of 33rd Street and 7th Avenue, and he released my hand. Cars and people rushed by on all sides. "You guys sounded great," I said. Another inadequate statement.

"You look amazing," he replied.

I wanted to argue and tell him that was impossible—I had just spent two days traveling and showered in a tiny public stall on a moving train this morning—but instead I just blushed. "So do you." It was the truth.

"Do you want to get lunch?" he asked bluntly.

"Carey, it's almost four o'clock."

"Dinner, then?" It was really too early, but I was more or less starving. Amtrak food hadn't done much to satisfy my appetite.

"Sure," I said. He took hold of my hand again, and I knew I should have pulled away, but I didn't want to. Carey always had made it impossible to decide with my head instead of my heart.

We ended up eating at a tiny but clean restaurant on Broadway, and not until our food was served did the conversation start to flow. He told me how he joined another band after he left Hope Springs, which I had known about. When the band seemed like it wasn't going anywhere, they broke up to begin their separate projects and lives. One of the other guys in the band, Josh, told Carey that he was planning to go to New York to meet up with a friend from college, and asked him if he wanted to come. Carey had been in New York ever since, living with Josh and his friend Brian in their Jersey City apartment. All three guys were musically inclined, except for the fact that none of them could sing very well. That's where Julia came in—they saw her performing one night at a local club and approached her afterwards, asking if she wanted to join their band. At first she thought they were crazy for approaching a total stranger, but their impulsiveness and spontaneity ended up being the reasons why she agreed. At first they did gigs here and there, but eventually longed for something more consistent. Julia's friend jokingly suggested that they should play in a subway station—but they decided to take her seriously. And that's what he had been doing for two years now.

"I didn't even know people could make money playing in a station," I confessed.

He smiled. "The way they figure it, we play, it creates an atmosphere, and all the people in the station stick around long enough to buy more from the food stands and shops. I don't know if it's actually true… but I don't really care either. Besides," he added quickly, "it's not about the money. I love it. Every day, I wake up and perform a show in New York City. And, okay, it's not Madison Square Garden, or even close, but it still feels pretty amazing."

"Actually, Madison Square Garden is only a few blocks away," I pointed out, and he laughed.

"I guess you have a point."

He asked me about Jack and Fiona. "They're doing great," I told him. "They're really happy. We all are."

"Any man in your life?" I blushed again. It was just like Carey to get right to the point.

"Not to my knowledge. What about you? You and Julia have a thing going on?"

"Julia?" He seemed shocked at the suggestion. "No way."

I raised an eyebrow. "Why not? She's pretty."

"Not compared to you."

I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks again. "Carey…" I began.

"I can't believe you found me," he said quickly, before I could object to his compliment. "I can't believe you actually wanted to see me again."

"What are you talking about?"

"The way I left…"

"It was a long time ago," I said quickly. "I mean, I'm not going to lie. After you left, I was depressed, confused, angry… I felt like it was all over for me. But the pain doesn't last forever, Carey. I moved on, just like you did."

"Why are you so sure I moved on?"

I was a bit taken aback by the question. "I mean—didn't you? You can't—Carey." He was staring at me more intensely now. _You can't still feel that way, _I wanted to say, but I couldn't bring myself to form the words.

He abruptly broke his gaze and stared off into the distance. "I'm not sure," he admitted. I sighed. "I mean, I thought I did… I tried to…"

"You wanted to," I filled in.

Once again, his eyes met mine. "No. That was the problem. I didn't want to."

"But there must have been other girls…"

"Of _course _there were other girls. But none of them were _you_."

"No, because they were all _girls_ instead of an old lady," I teased.

"You're not an old lady," he said quickly.

"Come on, Carey. You can't possibly still want to be with me."

"Don't act like it's one-sided. You want this as much as I do."

"No," I said firmly. I was lying straight through my teeth, and he probably knew it, but he didn't argue. "No, I don't."

"Why'd you come here, then? What the hell are you doing here, Molly?"

"I wanted closure."

"You traveled over two thousand miles so we could have _closure_?"

"Yes," I said unconvincingly.

"Fine," he said.

"Carey…" I pleaded. He didn't say anything. I knew I had hurt him. Here he was, pouring his heart out to me, and I… I wasn't even sure what I was doing. "I just want to be friends," I said, feeling like an idiot.

"Friends," he repeated numbly. "_Friends._"

"I just want you back in my life."

Now it was his turn to sigh. "I'm not sure I can be your friend," he whispered, and slowly looked up, meeting my gaze once again.

"Try," I said.

Finally, there it was—the smallest of smiles. "Okay," he agreed. "But I can't make any promises," he added jokingly.

"It's okay," I replied. "You were never good at making promises, anyway."

"Molly…"

"Carey, it's _okay_," I said quickly. "I'm kidding."

"All right. What do you want for dessert?"

So it went on like that—a perfectly innocent conversation. We left the restaurant around six o'clock and took a train uptown to Central Park. I felt silly, lugging my duffle bag wherever we went, but at least I had packed lightly. Carey made no more attempts to hold my hand, which was a complete relief. We walked leisurely around the park, talking and laughing and teasing, like old friends. It was exactly what I wanted. Finally we came to a bench and Carey sat down.

"Rest stop," he declared.

"I wasn't aware that taking a stroll through Central Park would be so _exhausting_," I teased, sitting beside him.

"Nah, it really isn't. I was just looking for an excuse to play my guitar." He grinned.

"That's just like you, Carey. You can't stop playing for more than a few hours without going through withdrawal, can you?"

"Yeah, well, some things never change," he told me. I couldn't help but wonder if there was a deeper meaning to his words. He took his guitar from its case and began to strum. I recognized the melody instantly.

"You had to do that, didn't you? You just had to play one of my songs?" He ignored me and kept playing.

"I'll take care of the melody. You can fill in the words."

"Carey…" I realized any protests would be useless. And what was the harm, really? So I started to sing.

_Can I be more like a river_

_And less like a wall_

_Not have to hold back these feelings at all…_

Some other people in the park had stopped to listen, from a distance.

_'Cause when I miss you_

_When I'm dying to kiss you_

_I want to let that flow…_

_More like a river_

We sat there, perfectly; he played and I sang until the song was over. Then he turned to me and smiled. I smiled back. There was nothing left to say. "It's going to get dark soon," he remarked. "We should probably go. I love Central Park, but that still doesn't make it a nice place to be at night." He placed his guitar back in the case and stood up. I remained sitting, watching him, trying hard not to admire his tanned skin, or beautifully toned body, and fighting the urge to run my fingers through his soft, wavy hair. "Molly?" he looked at me questioningly.

"Oh. Yeah. Of course," I said dumbly, standing up. I felt so lightheaded. _What the hell just happened?_

"Okay then, let's go. You're staying with Rachel, right? We can hail a cab from here. I'll go with you, if you want me to. Just to keep you company for the ride. I mean, I have nothing better to do. Or you can go alone, if you prefer—" He abruptly stopped talking then… because that was the moment when I decided to kiss him.


	9. Change of Plans

Disclaimer: This is all probably really obvious, but for whatever reason I keep feeling compelled to make these disclaimers. "More Like a River" still belongs to _So Weird _/ Jon Cooksey and Ali Marie Matheson / Disney Channel. "Fair" still belongs to Remy Zero, even though they broke up. I still don't own the characters or the show, but if I did, this is what would happen…

Chapter Nine

It was a dream. It must have been a dream. That didn't really happen, did it?

As I opened my eyes and realized that yes, I was in Carey's bed, and yes, he was lying beside me, still asleep, and yes, we were both entangled in the thin cotton sheet we shared, with nothing covering our bodies besides that. And yes, it really happened.

I probably should have been kicking myself. I probably should have jumped out of bed, put some clothes on, and gotten the hell out of there before he could wake up and stop me. I could go to Rachel's, not call, ignore any attempts he made to contact me, and leave New York on Thursday without saying goodbye. But instead I just smiled and nuzzled in close to him, resting my head on his chest.

_Just give me one more moment_

_One more moment_

_To finish this dream…_

I closed my eyes and listening to the rhythmic pattern of his breathing. I almost fell asleep again, but soon felt him moving gently below me. "Morning," he whispered, and I felt him kiss the top of my head.

"Good morning," I said softly. "Did you sleep well?"

"Better than I've slept in four years," he replied, and lifted up my chin to kiss me on the lips. "I could really get used to being your friend again," he murmured.

I laughed. "I guess this didn't exactly go as I planned."

"It's good to change your plans sometimes," he breathed, gently kissing down my neck. I wasn't about to argue. We didn't get out of bed for another hour.

He left to go make breakfast and ordered me not to leave the room until it was ready. I, of course, easily complied. He closed the door behind him and I hummed to myself, rummaging through my duffle bag to find something suitable to wear that day. I also should have given Rachel a call to explain exactly why I hadn't gone to her apartment the day before, but that could wait. As I pulled out the blouse I wanted to wear, a piece of paper fell out and fluttered to the floor. My eyes quickly ran over the words that I had read a million times before.

_Dear Molly,_

_I knew you'd be upset when I told you what I had to do. And I knew that I probably wouldn't be able to explain to you the reason why, and maybe I'd never be able to tell you where I was going. But believe me, it's better this way…_

For the first time ever, I read the letter and smiled. Its words were meaningless now. I carefully folded it back up and tucked it back into my bag, and got dressed for the day. I was putting on some makeup when Carey came back into the room.

"You don't need that," he said simply, and pulled the lipstick out of my hand.

I looked at him and cocked my head to one side. "I think you need to have your eyes checked."

He leaned in a little closer to my face and squinted. "Hm, maybe you're right…"

"Carey!"

He laughed and kissed me tenderly. It was getting a little more intense when he pulled back. "Our breakfast's going to get cold…"

"Do you think I care about breakfast?" I pulled him closer to me.

He kissed my forehead and then took my hand and led me into the tiny kitchen area. I surveyed the plates on the table, filled with pancakes, eggs, bacon, and toast. "Well? Do you care about breakfast now?"

"It looks delicious," I said. It smelled delicious too. "I don't think we'll be able to eat it all, though…"

"No, trust me, we will," Carey said seriously. "My eating habits haven't changed a bit." Sure enough, he ended up scarfing down about three-quarters of the food. I watched him, amused. He was right—something things never do change.

We went to the station together and I served, more or less, as his personal groupie. I couldn't care less. Julia let me sing a few songs, and it was a little weird, but in a good way. Afterwards we walked through the city streets, my arm through his, and later we watched the sunset from the roof of his apartment complex.

The next two days were like that. Romantic, chaotic, spontaneous, and I wouldn't trade them for the world. But my mind began to wander, as it always does. The first few times Irene crossed my mind, I tried to block her out, but eventually she became harder to ignore. I wanted desperately to mention it to Carey, but held back. Things were going too well.

_And you were somehow_

_The rain this thing could allow_

_I tried, but it's all wrong_

I just couldn't shove aside the nagging feeling that this was all going to come to an end very soon. We still hadn't discussed what would happen when I left on Thursday, and I suspected that Carey honestly believed I would stay with him in New York. I was afraid that my heart would once again defy all logic and that I really would stay in New York. There seemed to be no happy solution to the problem, and I tried to convince myself that maybe the best thing for both of us would be to end it, finally—to enjoy our last moments together as much as we could—and go our separate ways. But the fact of the matter was that I couldn't bear to lose him again. I wished he'd come back with me to Hope Springs, I wished Irene would be more understanding now, I wished we could be frozen in this wonderful moment in time—I wished anything, as long as it didn't involve losing him.

_You're so strong_

_But this life's work_

_And choice took far too long_

_Where'd it go?_

But some things never change, and that includes the fact that I never seem to get what I want.

_Tonight the sun shall see its light…_


	10. Silence

Chapter Ten

_So what if you catch me,_

_Where would we land?_

_In somebody's life_

_For taking his hands_

It was Wednesday night, our last night together. After performing at Penn Station that afternoon, we took a carriage ride through Central Park, and then Carey treated me to dinner at a fancy Italian restaurant in the Village. It was a perfect evening in every way, and the night was still young. Now we sat cross-legged on a blanket, holding hands and facing each other on the roof of his apartment complex. Remnants of tonight's sunset could still be seen melting into the horizon. It was a beautiful night, and the lights from the city skyline twinkled in the distance—even a few stars were scattered in the sky. But mainly my attention was on Carey, and his on me.

"I don't want you to leave," he said.

"I know. But I have to."

"I know." He sighed. "I'm sorry, Molly."

"Sorry for what?" I was confused. "This evening was perfect—these past few days have been perfect. You," I said, leaning in to give him a quick kiss, "are perfect."

"I'm still sorry about how I left. Maybe if I had stayed, we wouldn't be here right now, sitting on the roof of a plain old apartment complex in Jersey City. We could be lying in the grass in Hope Springs, surrounded by mountains, staring up at millions of stars instead of just a handful—"

"But you didn't have a choice."

"I know."

"And besides, I'm here with you now, aren't I? So it was more difficult this way—but when have things between us ever been easy?"

He let go of my hands and scooted over so that he was sitting beside me, and wrapped his arm around my back. I let my head fall upon his shoulder, and he rested his head against mine. "I guess you're right," he said softly. "I just wish things could be easier sometimes."

"That's love, Carey. It's exciting, it's beautiful, it's life-altering… but the one thing it never is, is easy."

He lifted his head up suddenly and I lifted mine as well to meet his eyes with mine. "Love?" he asked simply. "Does that mean…?"

I was a little surprised. "Well of course I love you—I wouldn't have traveled two thousand miles if I didn't love you…" I trailed off. "I never told you that before, did I?"

He shook his head. "I love you, too," he said softly. We smiled at each other, and I nuzzled against him more closely. "But that _still _doesn't change the fact that you have to leave tomorrow—" he began again distraughtly.

"Carey! Stop!" He abruptly fell quiet, and I had to laugh. "I want to enjoy this. But how can I do that if you won't stop complaining?"

"Complaining!" Now was his turn to laugh. "I am _shocked _that you would even suggest such a thing!"

I laughed again, and then we fell silent for quite a while, until he decided to break it again. "I'm going to call you every night," he said simply. "And I'll visit you… when I have enough money…"

"I'll write you letters," I offered.

"Letters? What are these 'letters' you speak of?"

"Ha, ha, ha. Very funny. There's the generation gap."

"I'd love for you to write me letters," Carey said.

"I will, then."

"Good."

And then we fell silent again, for a long time. I desperately tried to memorize everything I was feeling at that moment, and the warmth of his body, and the smell of his freshly-laundered shirt, and the pressure of his fingers intertwined with my own. I let my breathing fall into rhythm with his, and closed my eyes, imagining that we were one. It was such a bittersweet moment. Here I was, the happiest I had been in years. I felt _complete_, as cliché as that must sound. But at the same time, I knew that in less than twenty-four hours I'd be gone and alone again, and I'd have to wait god-knows-how-long for our next reunion.

At least this time, I'd know that there _would _be another reunion. I wouldn't fall back into that bottomless pit of depression and self-loathing, where I had resided for the past few years. It would just be a matter of time before Carey and I were together again… the hardest part would be the waiting.

The silence ended again—this time it was my doing. "Carey?" I said hesitantly. The question had suddenly entered my mind, and this time there was no backing down. I _needed _to know. "What'll happen when you come to see me?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean… well, your mother…"

"I don't know… I didn't think that far. I guess she'll have to deal with it. I'm older now," he said.

We were silent again, but only for a brief moment. I still hadn't asked the real question that was driving me crazy—and had, in fact, been driving me crazy every single day after Carey left me, up until this very moment. "What did she say to you?"

There was a pause before he spoke. "You mean… what did she say to force me to go?"

"Yes," I whispered. Admittedly, I was terrified to hear his response. I didn't want it to be something too horrible, because I didn't want to hate Irene again after we just rekindled our friendship. But I didn't want it to be something too mild, either, because then I might resent Carey for not defending himself. Maybe I shouldn't have bothered to ask—just let it remain one of those mysteries of life—but it was too late now. I nervously awaited his response.

"She…" He paused again. _Why is he taking so long to get the words out? _This couldn't be a good sign. "She said that she didn't approve… and she called you some names that I won't repeat… and said to get out of her house. She said she would make every effort to destroy your career if I stayed with you, and that she'd never speak to me again…" he trailed off. "And, I don't know. There was a lot."

I was kind of confused. "When did you start speaking to her again?"

Another silence. Then, "I don't know. Not too long afterwards, I guess. I told her it was over between you and me and she just forgave me."

I couldn't shake the feeling that he was leaving something out. I mean, it was a perfectly reasonable explanation, although I had to admit it was a bit mild. I wasn't going to hold it against Carey, but still… it seemed like there was something he wasn't telling me. Maybe I was just paranoid. _Paranoid of what? _

Then he interrupted my rapid flow of thoughts. "When did you start talking to her again?"

"A few weeks ago," I said. "That's how I found out you were in New York."

"And… you didn't bring up the topic of us… did you?" he asked.

I remembered how tense our conversation had been that day, and how it felt like Carey's name was so thick in the air, ready to spill out of our mouths at any moment. "No, I didn't."

He let out a sigh of relief. "Good. I want to bring it up with her myself."

_Sing to me hope as she's_

_Thrown on the sand_

_All of our work_

_Is rated again_

And then, all at once, it hit me. I'm not sure how it happened, but at that moment, my brain suddenly put all of the pieces together in a single clarifying instant. "Oh my god," I heard myself saying from somewhere deep inside my own mind as I tried to comprehend the information I had just uncovered. "Oh my god, oh my god."

"What?" Carey asked worriedly.

I pulled away and stared at him with what must have been crazed, fiery eyes. "_You never told her._"

This was when he should said something, anything, to defend himself, and tell me that I was wrong, and how did I ever come to that conclusion, and he never would have lied to me like that, and if he had, he would have had the nerve to be straightforward with me now—but instead, he just clamped his mouth shut and broke my gaze. Silence. That's what I lost it.

"How could you, Carey?" I was screaming now. "How _could _you? I didn't speak to your mother for _four years _because I thought she sent you away—four years! I _wept _for you. I felt so fucking sorry for myself, and for you, and you left me _all on your own_." I saw a tear running down his cheek, and it disgusted me. "Guess what," I said, standing up. "Now I'm leaving you."


	11. Intentions

Chapter 11

_When I was sure you'd follow through_

_My world was turned to blue_

I just ran. I ran away from him, across the roof and down the stairs, down three more flights until I reached his floor. I ran, never stopping to catch my breath, into his apartment, through the living room, past his wide-eyed roommates and into his bedroom. I scrambled around and grabbed my possessions and shoved them into my duffle bag. There was no time to double-check to make sure that I had everything—and honestly, I really didn't care. I needed to get out. Panting now, I fled from his room and back through the living room and out the door of his apartment, not bothering to close it behind me. I honestly expected to find him standing there in the hallway, with that same guilty awestruck look on his face—but he wasn't there. Frantically I descended the remaining five flights of stairs, taking the steps two at a time, until I somewhat triumphantly stumbled into the lobby and out through the automatic sliding glass doors to the sidewalk. But I couldn't stop there—I kept running, gasping for breath, as my feet struck loudly and painfully against the concrete and the humid summer air whipped in my face. Eventually I saw a bench about a block away—probably a bus stop—and made it my destination, pushing forward, breathless. I dropped my bag when I reached it and collapsed into the hard uncomfortable plastic of the bench. A man across the street was staring at me, but averted his gaze as he saw that I had noticed.

I was still breathing heavily—god, it felt like I might never catch my breath. I wasn't sure what it was. The fact that I'm forty-six years old and somewhat out of shape probably had a lot to do with it. That, or the smoking. If I hadn't been so motivated, I probably never would have made it here as fast as I did. And where was _here_, anyway? A street sign showed that I was at the intersection of 7th Avenue and Bridge Street. I had come only four blocks, but it was all my heart and lungs could take. Inside my bag I found my cell phone, so I dialed 411 and asked for a local cab service. The taxi would be here in about fifteen minutes, they told me. Fifteen minutes. What would I do? I suspected that fifteen minutes would be more than enough time for my racing thoughts to send me hurling into an emotional breakdown, so instead I reached back into my bag and felt around for the familiar rectangular package. Finally I found it and drew out a cigarette, and then dug around some more until I located my lighter. I flicked it, bringing the flame to my cigarette and slowly inhaling from the other end. Then again, and again. I was beginning to feel calmer already. The feeling ended quickly.

"You shouldn't smoke."

My body shook involuntarily at the sound of his voice. I didn't want to look at him, but I did anyway, and there he was: bloodshot eyes, tear-stained cheeks, and a hand on his slender hip as he appeared to be only slightly out of breath, a far cry from what my physical state had been just moments earlier. The difference of age between us had never before seemed as glaringly obvious as it did in that moment. He looked concerned. I was surprised not to feel anything.

"I'll do whatever I feel like doing." My voice sounded cold and unnatural. Having said that, I took another sharp inhalation from the shrinking cigarette, watching him the whole time, as if I expected him to fall apart. He didn't, of course, so I redirected my attention to the street, wishing the cab would just get here already. I could feel his eyes on me still, but I refused to look up.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice shaking slightly. He waited for a response and I didn't say anything. There was nothing more to say. Then he became indignant. "Do you really think I wanted you to stop speaking to my mom for four years? Do you honestly believe that I intended for that to happen?"

"I don't know," I said truthfully, still staring at the street. I said it so softly that I wasn't even sure if he heard. "Did you _intend_ to kiss me that afternoon in the recording studio?" I turned to look at him. "Did you intend to get involved with me?" Before he could respond, I went on. "Because I didn't. I didn't intend for any of this. I wish I could take it all back, but it happened, Carey. And now it's over."

"You're the one who came back," he said suddenly, as if it had just occurred to him. "You can't say you didn't intend for this, or that you didn't want this, because you're the one…"

"You're the one who _lied,_" I nearly screamed, and my voice strained. "You lied and you left me and coming back to you was a _mistake. _So just—just let me go, okay? Let me go home and back to my life there… where you don't exist."

As if on cue, the cab pulled up to the curb. I could tell that he was desperate now. "Molly, wait—"

"_NO._" To my surprise, his mouth snapped shut and I could see tears brimming in his eyes. I dropped my cigarette to the ground and crushed it with the sole of my shoe, still watching him, but he wasn't even looking at me anymore. With the strap of my duffle bag thrown over my shoulder, I climbed into the cab and slammed the door shut. His reflection was visible in the rear-view mirror, but he was getting smaller… shrinking and shrinking, until I could no longer see him at all.

_(It's so fair)_

It was then that I started to cry. Naturally I tried to fight it, and choked back the tears until I was breathing in violent, shaky gasps. _Get a hold of yourself. _I needed to calm down. It's not like this was the worst thing to ever happen to me, right? It never would have worked. I was leaving tomorrow anyway. If anything, it was easier this way. And at least I still had Irene. God, how had I been so stupid? It was so obvious. The whole time, she thought I was avoiding her solely because of her miserable management skills before I quit. And then, when we finally did talk, I was so sure that we were both avoiding the topic of Carey—but it was just me. No wonder she had been the first to speak his name; she had no idea that I was experiencing such inner torment. This also explained why she hadn't hesitated to tell me his whereabouts—and why she was so surprised that I didn't already know. How could Carey do this to me? How could he tear me apart from my best friend?

I sighed and slumped back into the worn seat. Only a few more minutes. Only a few more minutes until I would arrive at Rachel's, and collapse on her couch and fall into a deep sleep and not have to face my torturous thoughts again until tomorrow morning. Only a few more minutes.


	12. High and Dry

Chapter Twelve

I was lucky that Rachel didn't ask for an explanation. Unlike Rick, she never felt the need to prod into the unknown. Or maybe she just respected me enough to mind her own business. Regardless, I told her that I had stayed with an old friend the past few days, but she—this imaginary friend of mine was female, of course—had an unexpected family emergency to tend to, so, here I was. Rachel, being Rachel, just laughed it off and offered me some scotch. I fell asleep shortly thereafter.

Now the sun shone in an orange haze through my closed eyelids. As I had done for the past three mornings, I reflexively reached over for Carey—then awoke with a start. It was Thursday, my train would be leaving at ten to four, and I was in Rachel's apartment. It was already a quarter past noon and I didn't feel well-rested in the slightest. Rachel's couch wasn't exactly comfortable for sleeping. As my eyes adjusted to the harsh sunlight—it was a miracle I hadn't woken up sooner—I noticed a piece of paper on the coffee table in front of me.

_Hey Sleepyhead,_

_ I'll be at work till five, so I guess that means I won't see you. I hope you slept well. There's some cereal on the counter, or you can help yourself to anything in the refrigerator. There's a station at Christopher Street about a block away from here, so if you take the 1 uptown you should be at Penn Station in about ten minutes. Or you could always hail a cab, but the train would be cheaper. You have my work number, so call if you need me. I hope you have a safe trip home. I wish you could have stayed longer._

_ Love,_

_ Rachel_

I decided I would leave around three just to make sure I had enough time. I could no longer remember why I thought it would be such a good idea to take the train. I suppose, in the heat of the moment, I had romanticized the idea of Amtrak and traveling the old-fashioned way. Now I wished I could just beam myself back to Colorado in some kind of time warp. Nope, as usual, I had screwed myself over and wouldn't be back until Saturday. I even began to toy with the idea of renting a car, maybe a roomy but worn-in red convertible, a Mustang, and I could drive back to Hope Springs with the radio on and the wind whipping in my hair and spend every night in a dodgy old motel. Something crazy that I hadn't dreamed of doing since I was in my teens—but no, I had already paid for my train ticket home, so Amtrak it would be. Another dream deferred.

I picked up my bag and left. When I got to Penn Station, I walked briskly the main concourse, with my head down, and tried to blend in with the crowd. It wasn't too hard. I heard his band's music, but blocked it out, and kept walking, and didn't look, and soon it was gone. The train to Chicago was already boarding when I reached it, so I sat in the first empty seat I saw and that was the end of it. I was on my way home.

I preoccupied myself for a while. I took out a deck of cards—thank God I had the foresight to bring it—and played a few rounds of solitaire, a game in which I am unfortunately quite accomplished. Halfway through my sixth game, inspiration struck. I don't know what it was. I quickly withdrew my notebook and pen and began scribbling words, frantically and illegibly. It was almost as if I had no control over what I was doing—like the lyrics were being born from the depths of my unconscious mind. After some time—I don't know how long—five minutes, thirty minutes, an hour—I looked down and read back what I had written. I read it a few times over, crossed out some words here and there, and then murmured the lyrics aloud.

_Drying up in conversation_

_You will be the one who cannot talk_

_All your insides fall to pieces_

_And you just sit there wishing you could still make love_

_They're the ones who'll hate you_

_When you think you've got the world all sussed out_

_They're the ones who'll spit at you_

_You will be the one screaming out_

It was darker, edgier than anything I had written before. It was angrier. It was also the first time in a long time that I came up with lyrics so quickly. Usually I developed the melody first with a vague idea of the song's meaning, and the words came later. This was different. I hadn't felt so inspired since I embarked on my comeback tour almost seven years ago. I picked up my pen and kept going.

_You'd kill yourself for recognition_

_You'd kill yourself to never, ever stop_

_You broke another mirror_

_You're turning into something you are not_

We transferred in Chicago the next day, and I slept for a good portion of Friday for lack of better things to do. When I woke up, I looked out the window and the sun was just setting. I tried to imagine the colorful landscape and misty mountain air that would be waiting for me in the morning. I imagined my living room and my warm, cozy bed. I tried not to think of Carey, although I was still thinking about him by telling myself not to think about him. I tried to write more of the song, but just didn't feel inspired enough, so I played some more games of solitaire and read some of a mystery novel that I had inexplicably packed in my bag until I felt tired enough to fall asleep again.

At seven o'clock in the morning I was rudely awoken by the chipper voice of the train conductor. "We're right on schedule and we will be arriving in Denver in thirty minutes. This is the last call for breakfast in the dining car. It's a beautiful day today in the mile-high city! The current temperature is 67 degrees with no humidity. That's right. High and dry." Then he clicked off. I reached for my notebook—inspiration had struck again. I scribbled down some lines and then hurried to get dressed and brush my teeth; breakfast could wait till later. I looked out my window and watched as the mountains came into view. And soon there was Denver, of course, but it's hardly a city compared to Manhattan. When I stepped off the train and breathed the crisp refreshing air deep into my lungs, I knew I was home.

_Don't leave me high_

_Don't leave me dry…_


End file.
